The Violinist
by Aramisol
Summary: The violinist has not slept.


The Violinist

The violinist has not slept.

Darkness waits for him behind locked doors, in the rooms of his mind he dares not open. Motes of dust ride on hitched breaths of lamplight, clinging on thick smoky drapes. They settle on the shelves of quiet volumes, on surface tops, collecting on papers like forgotten bouquets. They fill the soulless arm chair in front of him and join the skull mocking on the mantelpiece. His silent-blue scarf crumpled on the floor, his dead phone lying beside it. He shuts his eyes and hears his own heartbeat, as soft as a distant clock, as muffled as the closing of books. Shadows seep into the living room, watching him from the cracks in the ceiling, slithering under his armchair behind his feet. Something waits there in the mirror beyond the darkness, a beast whiling its time away, one ear turned towards him, wary for movement, for change.

The violinist decides he must disrupt the room's mute disharmony.

His instrument alights on his left shoulder, its strings stretching before him like great silver wings. He presses his ear against its chest to hear it breathe. He draws the bow of horsehair across the metal threads, it sings in moderate _allegro_**. **The rosin scatters white ashes on the bridge, spreading the crisp scent of pine. His fingertips shift and shift, trapping the steel _twang _of the strings, the tune echoing in the room's corners, upsetting the shadows. They turn towards him, their eyes narrowing. They crawl out of hiding, their black arms seeking him out of the darkness. He could hear their disapproval - he plays louder, drowning their murmurs in music; it is futile- their breathless rasps smothering his mouth, coiling around his wrists- his neck- his heart-

Until the violinist hears steady footsteps- the doctor coming down the stairs.

The strings hum jauntily as if following the doctor's pace into the kitchen, _you're here, you're here_. The bright lemony lamp audibly flickers- the shadows retreat. Fresh water fills the kettle. A box of tea is unwrapped. The fridge opens and milk is poured. A teaspoon clinks as delicately as lace against ceramic. His violin quickens in an excited _vivacissimo__, _each of his friend's movements as distinct as different voices in his mind. The doctor pads out of the kitchen, into the living room, and the air springs with the fresh white scent of cotton. There is the sound of the gentle depression of the opposite chair, and of a china cup setting down on the coffee table- both waiting for him.

The violinist opens his sight.

Patient blue-grey eyes like evening clouds regard him in return. The first light of sunrise through the window illuminates the doctor's tawny mane of hair. The doctor yawns, mellow sleep still resting heavy on his eyelids. The tune of the violin had woken him from bed, touching his face, shaking his shoulder, someone needs him, is waiting for him. He sees a troubled child in the form of a grown-up (after all, he often sees the grown-up acting like a child). The lines on his face furrow with concern, but not too much. Snowy fluffs of smoke float from the tea in the doctor's hands and are gone in whispers. A cursory sip pecks on his tongue, sharp and bitter, then leaves with a feathery fragrance. The doctor follows the bow's flight through the air, thinking it is nothing like a soldier's rifle or a surgeon's scalpel, but like the dance of great wings soaring through winds. Captured, enamored, he closes his eyes, a finger tapping on the armrest in beat.

The violinist decides to make him smile.

His instrument purrs tenderly- an introductory caress on the cheek. The sweet chocolate verse swells, melting in the mouth of the room. He unfurls each petal of the refrain, ephemeral notes flowing in the musky air. The doctor follows his firm yet gentle lead through the music, notes like tender kisses of raindrops. The horsehair bow brushes the air in sure strokes, painting the deep blue universe before them. Then the ocean of the closing coda fades gently in waves, breathing in, and out, in, and out, and finally the doctor's fascinated smile twinkles like stars, (like so many stars). He revels in the glittering draught of the approval, drinking it deep, liquid gold spreading through his veins, fiery in his fingertips. Satisfied, the violin sighs, pleased with its creation; he lets it relax contentedly on his lap. Then he raises his eyes towards the doctor, eager, expectant.

The beloved violinist is offered tea.

The warmth of china flutters between them and his hands catch the small, gentle thing, its tiny breath tickling his palms. He closes his eyes as his lips touch the rim, and he tastes the sunlight streaming into the spaces of their home, chasing away the shadows.


End file.
